How’s Your Poop?

What the Doc Wants to Know
Arthur C. Cofresi

The general consensus of good health, according to my care providers, is good poop.  I found this out after undergoing a radical prostectomy.

After the surgery, I learned the robot broke, which in this case is a surgical device with arms and cameras used to assist the surgeon during the procedure.  So, what started out to be a state of the art slam-dunk became something much less.

They tried to re-boot the robot and finally called for ‘technical support.’  The phone call may have gone something like this: “Hi, my name is Shawn (suspiciously spoken with an East Indian accent.)  I’m here to provide you with excellent personal care.  May I have your Social Security Number and call back number?”

And later, Shawn says, “Oh, I see your concern.  Let me transfer you to my supervisor.”

When that approach didn’t work it was decided to dismantle the robot arm in my abdominal cavity.

Doctor:  “Hey Buddy, forget the phone call.  You got any tools in your car?”
Male Nurse:  “Yeah, in my trunk.  What do ya need?”
Doctor:  “See if you can find a small Phillips, and maybe a 3mm boxed end wrench.  If you don’t have that, then a small crescent will do.”
Male Nurse:  “Got it.  Anything else?”
Doctor:  “Yeah, bring a can of Liquid Wrench if ya got it.”

My wife said when they wheeled me from recovery that I was funny.  For my wife to say that, I must have been hilarious.  Funny…I can’t remember any of that.  Seems one side effect of the new surgical drugs they have nowadays is what is called Anesthesia Amnesia.  You are alert and lucid, but you can’t remember what happened.
She was mad at me for six days following my surgery.  Must have been something I said.

What I do remember is arguing with my male nurse who was wheeling me to my hospital room.  Seems he was agreeing that what happened to the robot was unfortunate.

So, I offered, “Then you agree this is not my fault?”  He listened.  I continued,  “That being said, then look at it this way.  Consider what happened to me as something akin to a personal foul in football.  I accept the penalty, so march the robot back 15 yards and have a replay.  You know, a do-over.”

I thought my logic was flawless.  He smiled and padded my feet with a blanket.

My hospital stay was a boot, too.

The guy next to me was in for breathing therapy.  He had a fingernail-on-chalkboard hacking cough.  He was worried that his Parkinson’s disease was affecting his breathing. The therapist said, more or less, “Nope.  You have emphysema and a damaged heart.  You’re pretty much broke.”

A half hour later, a nurse’s aid spent half-an-hour selecting his meal for the next day.
“Would you like eggs over easy, or French toast?”
“Eggs, okay.  Would you like hash browns or bacon?”
“Hash browns. Good. Now, sourdough toast or English muffin?”
“Now for lunch, you can have a hamburger with fries, or a turkey sandwich with a side of Cesar salad.”
“Dinner is next. What would you like Salisbury steak or pot roast.”
“Now what would you like to drink?”

I was easy.  Breakfast: Chicken broth. Lunch: Chicken broth. Dinner: Chicken broth with strawberry Jello.
Nurse Gloria, from the night shift was a real treat too, a real party animal.   Seems the night crew was a lively bunch.  They talked and gossiped, and laughed all night long. Loudly!  At times, she couldn’t hear that my IV drip had run dry.

Enter, nurse aid, Drew.
“What ya in for?”
“I don’t know.  Six to life for manslaughter.  Say, if you really want to know, how about checking my chart.  It’s somewhere over there at the nurse’s station under my last name…”

But, all that’s behind me now.  I’m home and recovering.  The doctor say’s I may never regain 100 percent of my abdominal strength back.  Maybe at best 85 percent.  That worries me.  See the way I figure it, I’m 60, so theoretically, I’m already 85 percent or less of what I was when I was twenty-five, so 85 percent of 85 percent is not 85 percent.  I’d be lucky to be 65 percent, and I’m running out of disposable body parts.  They took my tonsils when I was a kid, and a gnarly vein in my leg when I was in my twenties. They snipped my vas deferens when I had my vasectomy, making me a sports model, and now they have stripped my ejaculation primer.

It’s like taking off all of the smog restrictions on a 70’s early model Pontiac sedan trying to turn it into a ’64 GTO triple duce, 300 horsepower monster.  Except, in my case, it seems I’m more comparable to a ’64 VW 38 horsepower Beatle.

And, while I’m recovering, my testcies have swollen to the point where I can make a Brahma bull blush with envy.   My wife likes the new look, smiles a bit when she sees me, which makes me very nervous.  She’s expecting a full recovery, and so am I.

After all this, all my doctor asks, “How’s your poop?”

I just smile.